


Beneath the Boughs of Brokilon: A Titillating Tale by Dandelion the Bard

by LadySokolov



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blanket Fic, Canon - Book, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySokolov/pseuds/LadySokolov
Summary: In which a certain unnamed witcher and a certain unnamed bard find a lot more than warmth in one another's arms.





	Beneath the Boughs of Brokilon: A Titillating Tale by Dandelion the Bard

The following story is found on a handful of yellowing paper at the back of a small bookstore in the middle of Novigrad.  A few other copies of the tale can be found in this particular bookstore, each of them copied out by an inexpert hand, but this one appears to be the original, penned by the author of the tale himself, although it also appears as though another, slightly newer page of a different paper stock has been attached to the top of the small pile at a later date.

The papers read as follows:)

A Note From the Author:

No doubt anyone who is reading this is familiar with my more lyrical work and wondering why I spent time penning this lurid piece of literature and not another ballad, to which I say that any artist worth his salt relishes the opportunity to stretch his metaphorical wings every now and again and try his hand at something new and unfamiliar.

A Further Note From the Author:

Rumours have been circulating that the bard and witcher in this tale are none other than myself and my esteemed friend Geralt of Rivia, and that the following account is not fictitious at all. I would respond by saying that such talk is flagrant slander, and that any resemblance the characters in this tale bear to myself or to my companion is completely coincidental and of no real significance.

After all, do you really suppose that the elves and dryads of Brokilon would allow us to enter that most cursed of places and then leave in peace, much less allow us to behave in such a manner as is recounted in this tale? 

I should think that highly unlikely, wouldn’t you?

 

## BENEATH THE BOUGHS OF BROKILON

A Titillating Tale by Dandelion the Bard

 

All was silent in the dark forest of Brokilon. It had been since the bard had entered that accursed place, but at that moment even the unheard footsteps of dozens of elves and dryads had ceased to disturb the peace as the forest’s residents all settled down to rest for the night.

The path that had led a certain bard and a certain witcher to Brokilon was a long and winding one which I will not recount here. Suffice to say it was the second night that they had spent together in the forest. During the first both the bard and the witcher had been so exhausted by their travels that sleep had overtaken them both almost immediately, but on this second night they lingered in wakefulness for many long hours, simply conversing and enjoying one another’s company.

“It is freezing!” the bard exclaimed to his witcher friend.

The bard had travelled across mountains and rivers, bargained with kings and charmed even the most bloodthirsty of elves in order to be reunited with his companion, without whom the bard often felt as though there was barely any point to living at all. Nay, without the valiant witcher friend that he adored, it seemed as though the sun would never rise again, and all music had fled his heart to ne’er return until they were reunited.

(If one looks closely there is, on this parchment, a barely visible scrawl of writing in the border of the page. It reads:

‘This is horseshit. They only let you step foot in Brokilon because you were still very much capable of playing music, and while you might have fallen asleep quickly on that first night, I certainly did not.’

It is followed by another hand, the same perhaps as penned the story, albeit writing with a lot less care.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about my dear. This is a purely fictitious story, remember?’)

The sight of his witcher friend sitting beside him might have been enough to warm the bard’s heart all on its own, if it was not for the dreadful journey that he had already endured, and the fact that the forest of Brokilon grew extremely bloody cold at night; so cold that no amount of love or longing, no matter how poetic, was capable of fighting it off.

“How am I expected to sleep in such cold!” the bard wailed. “I shall freeze to death!”

What made matters even more unbearable was the knowledge that they would not be allowed to light a fire. No; the elves and dryads forbade such a thing. Fortunately, the witcher knew of a solution.

“There is a tradition in Brokilon,” he told the bard. “In order to keep warm through the cold nights, the elves and dryads sleep wrapped in one another’s arms, their bodies entwined for warmth. Considering the night is so unbearably cold, it only makes sense that we should do the same.”

The witcher’s words caused the bard to immediately cease all movement, and to completely robbed him of speech. You see, the bard had been hiding a most terrible secret from his friend the witcher. One which he was afraid would be revealed should he spend the night pressed against the warm, muscular form of his friend’s body; one which threatened to destroy the very friendship that the bard cherished so much.

(The words ‘destroy the very friendship’ have been underlined, and another note is written in the border of the tale in a blocky script, and is, once again, followed by a reply from the author.

‘How did you think I was going to react?’

‘Poorly.’ 

If a single word can look uncertain, than this one does. It is not followed by a question mark, but somehow gives off the impression that it should be.

‘I would never...’

The writing breaks off, seemingly mid-thought, but there is a splatter of ink that might indicate a pen being slammed down on top of the parchment in frustration. Perhaps the commenter stormed off to deliver the rest of this thought in person.)

The bard had little choice though, not unless he wished to wake up in the morning having frozen solid, and so the two friends lay down next to one another on the cold, uneven ground. 

The witcher reached out, one large, muscular hand coming to rest on the bare skin of the bard’s neck as gently as a butterfly alighting on a flower. Despite the gentleness and innocence of the touch, the bard’s heart began to pound in his chest, thrumming with such force that he began to fear it would be felt or heard by the witcher, and would therefore give him away.

You see, the love that the bard bore for the witcher was not only the pure love one feels for a beloved friend and comrade, but a much more passionate, selfish and sensual love. He ached for the other man, longed for his touch, and had spent many a lonely night imagining what it might feel like to be pinned down by the witcher’s strong, warm hands and fierce, golden gaze. He had brought himself to completion imagining only the sighs and the moans that the witcher might let out while in the throes of passion. He found himself desperately missing the witcher when fate conspired to keep them apart, and pined hopelessly for the witcher when at his side.

However, the bard did valiantly do battle with the pounding of his own heart and the stiffness of his limbs, and before long the bard and the witcher were laying side by side on the cold, twig-strewn ground, one of the witcher’s arms wrapped around the bard as though he might protect his friend from not only the cold night, but from all of life’s horrors.

Their breath warmed the small amount of air that lay between them, and with every breath that the bard took into his body, he could smell the other man’s scent, so dangerous and overwhelming and yet also a very welcome source of comfort.

Slowly they began to move closer to one another as they sought out the warmth emanating from one another. The bard did not want to arouse suspicion, and so he said nothing as the witcher’s arms moved to wrap around his torso and pull him flush against the witcher’s broad chest.

It was then that the bard’s body betrayed him, but truly, what chance did he have? He had dreamed of this; of being encircled in the other man’s arms, of having his head tucked beneath his love’s own, of hearing the other man’s soft, steady breaths as they lay together.

The bard managed to stifle the moan that threatened to spill from his lips, but he was not able to stop his body from showing its interest in other, more damning ways. Afraid that his arousal would eventually give him away as long as he remained pressed up against the witcher in such a manner, the bard attempted to turn around in the witcher’s arms, so that his back would be facing the witcher and his inflamed manhood would remain hidden.

The witcher and the bard moved at the same time however, and before the bard had even turned part of the way, one of the witcher’s legs insinuated itself between the bard’s own, the warrior’s thigh moving to press insistently on the sensitive and already affected area between the bard’s legs.

This time the bard was unable to stop the cry of pleasure that emerged from between his lips. He moaned the witcher’s name, and then, ashamed, he managed to disentangle their legs and complete his attempt to turn around in the witcher’s arms.

The bard lay there in the silence of Brokilon forest, hoping in vain that the witcher might have somehow neglected to notice his rather loud exclamation of pleasure, or, when he finally accepted that such a thing was impossible, that the witcher might have somehow misinterpreted his cry as one of discomfort. It all seemed rather hopeless though. Even if the cry of pleasure could be overlooked, surely the witcher had felt the bard’s interest pressing against his muscular thigh?

The bard had to believe that he might find some sort of salvation however. No fate seemed worse to him at that moment than that which might befall him should his beloved witcher discover the true form of the bard’s affection for him. He did not want to be cast aside by his witcher love. Nay, he wished, more than anything, to stay by the witcher’s side, and prayed that such a transgression as his body had committed could either be overlooked or forgiven.

The bard lay still and silent for what seemed like hours, until the witcher’s arms tightened around him once more and pulled the bard’s trembling body flush against his own. The terrified bard let out a cry of mixed shock and delight as he suddenly became all too aware of the fact that the witcher’s manhood was just as erect as his own, and was jutting insistently against the bard’s rear.

“Why do you turn your back to me?” the witcher asked. “Is it from shame? As you can feel there is nothing to be ashamed of. I am just as affected by our closeness as you are.”

The bard turned his head to find the witcher’s beautiful eyes, glowing golden even in the darkness of Brokilon and staring directly into his own, pinning him helplessly in place.

“Could it possibly be that you feel the same as I do?” the bard asked, afraid of the answer even as he asked the question.

“If by that you mean to ask whether I love you, just as I know you love me?” the witcher murmured softly. “Then yes, I do feel the same.”

He then leaned in, his handsome mouth hovering close to the bard’s ear. He breathed the bard’s name so tenderly and with such passion that the bard could not help but let out a cry of pure joy and pleasure, this time unashamed and heedless of all the elvish ears that might overhear his cries.

The witcher’s hand slipped over the bard’s waist, strong, thick fingers dancing over belt and fabric until they reached their destination. The witcher’s hand began to caress the bulge that was pressing against the fabric of the bard’s crotch, its strength, so often used for violence, now cautious and sensual as it caressed the still-clothed manhood of the witcher’s lover.

“I know that you travelled over mountains and outwitted death to be reunited with me. If that does not tell me that you love me then this certainly does,” the witcher said as he gave his prize a particularly passionate squeeze. “You need not fear. Your love is not wasted. I have loved you for so very long, and nothing could bring me more pleasure than having you here in my arms tonight.”

“I love you so very much,” the bard whispered. “Oh, you do not know how long I have waited to be able to say those words. I love you so, my dearest witcher.”

“Please,” the witcher whispered into his bard’s ear. “Will you allow me to bring you pleasure tonight?”

“Of course beloved,” the bard replied. “I would wish for nothing more. Nay, I have dreamed that one day you might ask to touch me in such a manner.”

(There is another series of notes here.

‘I do not talk like that. I don’t remember you being nearly so eloquent in the moment either.’

‘I would remind you once again that this is a purely **fictional** account Geralt.’)

One of the witcher’s arms pulled his beloved closer, while the one which had been caressing the bard’s manhood so delightfully moved to unfasten the bard’s trousers.

The bard’s erect manhood sprung free from the confines of his trousers, already tall and eager.

“Do not fret,” the witcher murmured into the bard’s ear as he took the bard in hand. “I have you.”

He began to stroke the bard’s length, his hands strong and decisive, each powerful touch nearly enough to overwhelm the bard all on its own. Meanwhile the witcher’s own substantial manhood pressed against the bard’s rear, the delicious friction only causing them both to grow harder and more eager. It was all so pleasurable and so perfect that the bard could not help but moan and whimper continuously at the other man’s touch.

He could feel every one of the witcher’s warm breaths against his neck, and soon the firm and absolutely breathtaking feeling of the witcher’s lips pressing against his skin. A set of sharp teeth scraped gently over the veins in the bard’s neck, and when the bard felt, more than heard, the witcher moan against his flesh he let out a cry of his own in response.

“Oh please,” the bard begged, crying out the witcher’s name for all the elves in Brokilon to hear. “I wish for the pleasure to be not mine alone. Make love to me my dear witcher, as I have always dreamed you would. Please!”

The witcher did not reply. Instead one of his hands retreated from the bard’s erection, and the bard soon heard the soft sounds of a buckle coming undone, and a pair of heavy leather pants being shucked down the witcher’s thighs.

Once the witcher had freed himself from the confines of his trousers, he pulled the bard’s own clothing down a little lower, exposing the tops of his thighs to the cold night air of Brokilon. 

However, the bard did not have it in him to object to the feeling of the cold air on his flesh, not when the witcher still had one very talented hand attending to the bard’s now throbbing manhood.

The witcher guided his own pulsing member down, where it buried itself between the bard’s thighs. Once its task was done, the hand that had lowered their trousers and guided the witcher’s shaft, slid up to wrap around the bard’s chest and pull him close, so that as little air lay between the two of them as possible.

The witcher rutted against the bard then, his thick, pulsing manhood thrusting between the bard’s legs and leaving slick, damp trails on the pale skin of the bard’s thighs. Occasionally the witcher’s length would press against the swollen and extremely sensitive parts that lay beneath the bard’s own erect manhood, causing the bard to let out more than one obscene cry in his bliss.

(‘Why not just write balls?’

‘Geralt! Balls is too crude and not nearly romantic enough.’)

This, combined with the firm, steady pulls of the witcher’s hand were soon enough to completely overwhelm the bard, and he found completion with a cry as stars danced behind his eyes and every inch of his body was consumed by overwhelming pleasure. The witcher was all that the bard could smell and feel and think of, and it brought the bard so much bliss that as he began to come back to himself he wished that he might never leave the other man’s arms.

The witcher was not far behind his lover, and even as the bard reclined, lost forever in sweet bliss, he felt the witcher thrust only a few more times before he began to tense. The witcher’s arms held onto the bard so tightly that the bard thought he might burst. It was glorious.

The witcher finished with a shout, his thick manhood pulsing between the bard’s legs and decorating the skin of his thighs with spatterings of his warm, wet seed.

The two of them lay there for a very long time, simply listening to one another’s soft breathing; neither of them willing to interrupt the silence of perfect bliss with anything as meaningless as words.

Eventually the witcher moved to tuck them both away and to cover their shame and the evidence of their lovemaking, but still neither of them said a word, and the bard fell asleep in the strong, warm arms of his witcher love.

(One might notice that the ending of this tale seems rather hastily written. It is also worth noting that the writing near the end of this tale begins to grow rather messy and uneven, especially in the final four paragraphs. It is almost as though something, or someone was distracting the author or encouraging him to finish quickly. 

Perhaps a pair of arms wrapped around the author as he attempted to write the ending of his tale. Perhaps a mouth left warm breaths and soft kisses along the skin of his neck. Perhaps the author and his witcher felt the need to reenact the events of this tale; just to make sure they were remembering the details right, you understand. And perhaps, despite the critical nature of the comments left in the borders of these pages, a certain someone enjoyed this story a lot more than he let on.)

~ The End ~


End file.
